


Veils of Memory Infected With Dreams

by ALC_Punk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Creepy Fluff, F/M, Married Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 00:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16482425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALC_Punk/pseuds/ALC_Punk
Summary: Molly was dragged into joining a search through the woods, or so she remembers... Yet the fog is growing ever deeper, and she can't quite place what she's supposed to be doing.





	Veils of Memory Infected With Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine.  
> Written for: Sherlolly Halloweeeeeen; though I couldn't actually find it for a bit there, since it was still on my work computer (whoops). Otherwise I would have finished this days ago (I wrote it the 17th).
> 
> Inspiration: a post on tumblr that I can't find open in a tab anymore. But it was basically foggy woods in autumn and gorgeous.
> 
> I'll be honest, I wrote this thing mostly to capture the atmosphere. Not sure if I succeeded. 
> 
> Further notes: established Molly/Sherlock.

The trees were dark shapes against the hazy fog, and Molly found herself shivering as she stood there. The leaves beneath her feet didn't crunch, as there was too much humidity in the air. But every step released a loamy, musty smell from the layers she walked on. The fog made the air slightly dense, almost too thick to breathe, and she found herself wanting to suck in deeper breaths the more she breathed it in.

As she went deeper into the woods, the air seemed to get even thicker, clinging to her skin and clothing until she felt as though she'd been caught in the rain. 

Her shoes didn't squeak, at least. She could be grateful for that. 

Nothing worse than wandering through the London fog with squeaky shoes--it always sounded like someone was following you as the echoes chased themselves around. The direction of sound in fog was always a bit hazy, she'd found. Perhaps she and Sherlock could experiment with fog one of these days--John would probably bring his phone and take pictures of them in their safety goggles. 

Gradually, she noticed that the fog was growing denser, the trees slowly disappeared into it. Once a white mist, then a gray dampness, now it was turning into an orange-brown-gray morass. She slowed, not wanting to run into anything even with the path running mostly-straight between trees and low-lying brambles. 

Even with the urge to continue on, she found herself slowing down. More to do with the length of time she'd been in the woods, she reasoned. 

Pity she hadn't dragged Sherlock along. At least his grumpy comments about the woods and how he should strand his brother there to keep up with his diet would have been something to focus on. 

Just as she began to feel she didn't want to take another step, the path disappeared. 

Why was she here again? The thought suddenly intruded, and Molly stared at the wall of fog in front of her. It was still an odd orange, and she wondered how close to nightfall she was. She should check her phone. 

A phone she didn't have. She frowned, then checked her pockets. Where was her phone? Didn't she have it with her when she left her flat?

When did she leave her flat?

Behind her, a twig cracked, as though someone had stepped down upon it. Molly turned, but there wasn't anything there. Just the path disappearing into the trees and fog. A breeze danced around her, and the mist began shifting, the path filling in behind her until she was surrounded by the hazy gray-orange. 

No forwards. No backwards. 

The forest wasn't quite so friendly, anymore. 

"Hello?"

Her voice disappeared into the fog, swallowed up before the word even left her mouth. 

There was no echo. 

"Sherlock? Greg?" 

Hadn't she come here with them (if she had, why had she thought Sherlock would be something to focus on before, that thought didn't make it to the surface, drowned by thoughts of whom could have dragged her to the woods)? Something about a case, about searching for John... Rosie. Closing her eyes for a moment, Molly struggled to understand why it was so hard to think. She rubbed a hand over her face, grimacing over the damp. Blinking her eyes open, she found the fog hadn't changed. 

Distant (near) looming shapes of trees dotted the landscape, but it was like standing in the middle of a bowl of creamy potato and leek soup. Mrs. Hudson made a particularly excellent version, and she was suddenly craving the warmth it would bring her.

Straightening her shoulders, Molly took a step into the fog. The leaves under her feet made the same shifting, squeaking noise as before, though the sound was now muffled. 

The path hadn't been straight, but she was going to try going back the way she'd come. If she could return to the entrance... 

She frowned again, trying to recall whether she'd taken a taxi (to the woods?) or driven. Or been driven. Perhaps Greg had dropped her first before parking in the distant car park?

_Why couldn't she remember?_

"Greg!" She called, shouted, waiting for the name to echo back to her the way it should. 

There was no echo (again), as the name was swallowed into the fog. 

If she hadn't been so alone, the stark fog and occasional looming dark tree would have been beautiful in its own way. But she was alone, and she was lost. She admitted that when she stumbled off the path, crashing through a bush and fetching up against one of the damp trees. The bark scratched at her hands, digging into the palms and she jerked her hands away, looking at them to make certain there were no open scrapes. 

No blood. She breathed out in relief, listening for the crack of another twig in the utter silence around her. 

A forest should have noise. Always in the background should be the sound of the trees in the breeze, the shuffle of tiny creatures (and not so tiny creatures) rushing through the under-growth. Distant bird song should herald the sun still out, high above. And yet, Molly could hear none of this. The forest was utterly silent, utterly devoid of any life save herself. 

For a moment, she considered that she was the only thing alive in the world. 

She blamed the thought on the giant tree looming over her, the way Sherlock sometimes did when he was losing an argument. 

"Nothing but me and the trees, now there's an apocalypse for you," she murmured. What a lonely thought. She'd always planned the apocalypse with Sherlock (and possibly John and Rosie) in mind. They would eke out a living on the fringes, being careful, and generally working to re-populate the planet. Well. As much as they could, she wasn't getting any younger, after all. 

Her cheeks flushed with the thought of her and Sherlock's children, dashing between the trees and laughing in the fog.

"Sherlock? John?" Anything to break _that_ train of thought, after all. 

As before, the mist swallowed the sound of her words, and maybe that was where the normal forest sounds were? Swallowed in the unnatural fog, with its orange haze and creeping thickness as it wrapped around her and the trees. 

Shaking her head, Molly moved away from the tree, avoiding the gnarled roots at its base. 

At least she thought she'd avoided them, but she must not have. Or, the fanciful thought occurred, the roots had shifted, slithering into her way so that she would stumble again. Her hand hit the trunk of the tree as she steadied herself, scraping the palm further. This time, she could feel the heat of her own blood as it dripped free of the shallow cuts.

Under her palm, there was the sensation of something taking in a breath, and then the bark _throbbed_. It pulsed against her skin, the sensation making her jerk away. 

She found herself off-balance again, flailing for purchase against nothing. 

Landing hard on her back, she stared up at the canopy of fog and tree, trying to catch her breath. The fog swirled down around her, stifling her as it muffled her panting breaths. Rolling onto her side, she started to get up, then realized that the roots were tangled around her legs as though they were a vine and not solid wood. 

Perhaps they had moved to claim her. 

Reaching down, she tried to free her legs and found that the tree was locked solidly around her. Digging her nails into the wood, she tried to pry at least one of them free, but the root was strong. It was like being trapped in amber, with the eerie orange fog filling her vision,. 

Molly drew in a breath and tried to call out. Her voice failed, as though swallowed whole before it escaped her larynx.

Again, she yanked at the roots. 

Panic was beginning to pulse through her, adrenaline responses speeding up time and slowing everything down. 

Even the crack of a nearby twig seemed to drag on forever. 

She struggled harder, shouting for help, though no sound could be heard with the fog thick and deep around her. Silence wouldn't rescue her from whomever was out there, and maybe it was Sherlock or Greg or John. If only she could remember who had driven her there!

Nothing worked. She couldn't escape, and for one last, despairing moment, she could see a sudden shaft of light cutting down through the mist and trees. 

"--Molly?"

Then it was gone, the strange echo of Sherlock's voice disappearing as darkness closed around her. 

Panic jerked her awake, and Molly lay gasping for breath, shuddering in the aftermath of her terror. She was ice-cold with sweat and fear. And in her bed. She was in her own bloody bed. Moonlight filtered through the curtain, where she'd bumped it earlier while making out with her husband. _Crap._ Just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare. Her heartbeat still raced, her breath coming in quick gasps as she glanced around the room in the darkness. 

She shivered and wiped her hand over her face, blotting it with the sheet a moment later. It was at once too-hot and yet she felt frozen wrapped in their covers. 

Behind her, Sherlock was snoring (something he claimed was untrue, though she, John, & Greg each had recordings of him doing so. He had announced none of them counted as they could be easily faked, after all). He'd snuggled close to her, adding to the heat suffusing her, one arm draped over her waist. 

Reaching down, Molly laced her fingers through his, feeling the calm of his touch slowly seep into her. She shoved the blankets off her front, letting in some of the cooler air.

Then with a grumble, she shifted closer to him, curling into his chest. 

In the morning, she'd tell him her stupid dream, she decided as she closed her eyes. He'd probably mock her, but then, his opinions on dreams were similar to what he thought of love. Smiling a little, she felt sleep claim her again. Being an adult with a real job, she couldn't simply stay awake. Skiving off work was only acceptable if one were truly sick. 

Nightmares and a fear of sleeping were not generally considered good excuses for calling off work.

Had she remained awake and turned over to look at him, she would have seen Sherlock's eyes open. He drew in a breath and then exhaled, a misty fog escaping into the air, glowing for a moment before it seemed to sink into both their skins. As it did so, his eyes clouded over with green, his skin mottled with the dark brown bark of a tree. 

Molly's echoed the colors. 

Then the impression was gone, and his mouth curved into a strange smile. 

-f-


End file.
